


streetlife serenaders (need no vast arrangements)

by srididdledeedee



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Retrospective, goes crazy goes stupid, just something small....it's about the Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srididdledeedee/pseuds/srididdledeedee
Summary: Brook is happy with his life—his death, that is.  His new life.  His second chance.  His something more.  He’s happy on the Thousand Sunny, happier than he thought he would ever be again.  The days aren’t bad, not at all.But the night is for Brook to play for himself and for no one else.
Relationships: Brook & Sanji
Comments: 10
Kudos: 116





	streetlife serenaders (need no vast arrangements)

**Author's Note:**

> well it had to happen eventually ("it" being a work inspired by a billy joel song).

_Streetlife serenader  
_ _Never sang on stages_

Brook is happy with his life—his death, that is. His new life. His second chance. His something more. He’s happy on the Thousand Sunny, happier than he thought he would ever be again. The days aren’t bad, not at all.  
  
The nights—Brook wouldn’t say he’s afraid of the dark, by any means, but the nights are what fool him. He’ll think he’s still in the Florian Triangle, alone, desperate, without another soul on the ocean. It scares him terribly, so bad he thinks his heart will beat out of his chest—that is, if he still had a heart.  
  
He plays music when Luffy asks—when anyone asks really, or when he’s inspired, or when there’s cause for celebration. That’s what the day is for. It’s for sunshine, and joy, and togetherness, and moving forward. The night is—not that. It’s different. It’s something that Brook can’t put into words. He was stuck in it for so long, and he thought he would never want to return to it, but it’s not his enemy. It’s an old friend. It’s been there longer than anyone else has.  
  
The night is for Brook to play for himself and for no one else.  
  
He likes playing for himself. It’s therapeutic. He doesn’t play music for the attention and never has, but it takes the pressure of the audience away. It allows him to contemplate on his own first life, without needing to explain anything to anyone else.  
  
Brook likes playing the piano by moonlight the best. It’s less painful than the violin, which has always reminded him of Yorki and the Rumbar Pirates. It’s easier to play at night, too—he dampens the sound, and it’s in the aquarium, so it’s far enough away from the bunkrooms to not bother his crew. He supposes he could play the violin in the aquarium, but he doesn’t see why he should when the piano is right there.  
  
He plays old songs when he’s alone, songs his first crew loved and that his second crew doesn’t know. It’s not that the Strawhats don’t know any of his songs—music has stayed the same as much as it has changed, and the shanties they sing are nearly identical to the ones Brook sang in his day. Songs of the time are much more fickle, and weigh more heavily on Brook.  
  
_Needs no orchestration_  
_Melody comes easy_  
  
Brook doesn’t expect to be interrupted during one of his private midnight concerts, but the smell of smoke _(though he doesn’t have a nose to smell with)_ alerts him to their cook’s presence. He doesn’t stop playing, though he dips his head in acknowledgement. He waits for Sanji to come to him.  
  
_Midnight masquerader_  
  
“What song’s that?” Sanji asks, approaching the piano.  
  
“An old one,” Brook says. “It has words and a title, but I don’t remember them anymore. Well, I remember some of the words. It’s no matter. The tune is enough.” He dances his fingers up the piano and allows them to linger there, playing the melody in a higher register. “Is something bothering you?”  
  
“Nah,” Sanji says. “Just—couldn’t sleep.”  
  
A common problem enough. Brook nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”  
  
“Took a walk to clear my head,” Sanji continues. “I wanted some fresh air, and I heard—” He waves his hand at the piano. “You.”  
  
“Well, I hope my music isn’t keeping you awake,” Brook says. “I could stop, if you’d like.” He doesn’t want to, but the cook needs his sleep.  
  
“No, it’s fine,” Sanji says, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I was actually wondering—” And he cuts off and flushes, in the way he always looks abashed and nearly ashamed when asking for something for himself. “If you could play this song again? From the beginning?”  
  
Brook smiles. “Of course.”  
  
He stops playing for a moment, and readjusts his hands. It’s a deceptive song, starting at a low volume and building to a crescendo before returning to its quietness. It’s reflective and pensive, and Brook can’t remember the last time he sang it to someone else.  
  
“There are meant to be more instruments,” Brook comments in between verses, lengthening the piano solo. “Drums and a guitar, at least. But it’s nice on the piano.”  
  
“I can play the guitar,” Sanji says.  
  
“Really?” Brook asks. It’s not the instrument he would have imagined for the cook—he couldn’t imagine any instrument for him, to be honest.  
  
“Yeah. I learned in the East Blue, with my old man,” Sanji continues. “I stopped before I got any good at it, because it wasn’t good for my hands, but I remember the chords. I think I do, anyway.”  
  
“We must play together sometime,” Brook says, and he means it. Sanji laughs.  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “If you find a guitar and a song I can play. Franky’s is too big for me, and you—well, you’ve been a musician for like eighty years. You’re gonna be a little better than me.”  
  
Brook laughs good-naturedly. “I suppose that’s true.”  
  
He continues with the song, and before he knows it, he’s hitting the final chords and the damper pedal, allowing the sound to fade out, through the aquarium, up through the ship, and out over the ocean.  
  
“It’s a simple song, you know,” Brook says quietly. “Not so difficult lyrics. Not so difficult music. But it means something. It means more.”  
  
“I sing, too,” Sanji says. “But you know that. We all sing. We’re pirates.”  
  
There’s something unspoken there, a need for validation, a need to be recognized. Brook hums to himself. “Would you like to sing while I play? You’ll have to be quiet, but you’re welcome to.”  
  
“I don’t know what I would sing,” Sanji says with a snort.  
  
“Sing this with me,” Brook says, and he starts up the song again. “Simple lyrics, and slow, too. You can just jump in when you’re ready.”  
  
Sanji’s eye flits down to his shoes. “Thanks, Brook. I probably should get to bed, though.”  
  
“Probably,” Brook says.  
  
Sanji stands still for a moment before reluctantly turning towards the door. “This was nice, Brook.”  
  
“I agree,” Brook says. “Perhaps you’ll sing with me some other time.”  
  
Sanji’s back is to Brook, but he doesn’t miss the small nod. “Yeah. Maybe. G’night.”  
  
“Good night, cook,” Brook says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”  
  
_Streetlife serenaders_  
_Have such understanding_  
_How the words are spoken_  
_How to make the motion_  
  
The night is for Brook, but it’s nice to have company.  
  
_Streetlife serenaders_  
_Have no obligations_  
_Hold no grand illusions_  
_Need no stimulation  
__Midnight masqueraders  
__Working hard for wages_  
_Need no vast arrangements_  
_To do their harmonizing_


End file.
